


An Extended Stay

by awanderingbard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, One-Sided Relationship, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:50:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awanderingbard/pseuds/awanderingbard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of <i>Reichenbach</i>, Molly gains a temporary flatmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One- Not Exactly a Fantasy

**Author's Note:**

> I've always liked the idea of Sherlock staying with Molly for a bit after _Reichenbach_ and so I thought I would write a thing and then it turned into sort of a big thing. It's a completed thing, though, and it is in two parts, which I will post together.
> 
>  
> 
> This technically follows [The Parting of Ways](http://archiveofourown.org/works/402383%22) and like that, will probably end up being very non-canon when Series Three rolls around. Knowledge of that story is not required to understand this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I might have Molly working on a Sunday here. I wrote before I thought to check the dates. However, Molly seems like the type of girl to work the shifts no one else wants, so maybe it's all okay. Also, I'm fairly sure I've invented an episode of Inspector Morse.

Molly Hooper had never been more exhausted in her life. It wasn't just physical exhaustion, though there was plenty of that too. It was emotional exhaustion as well, and mental exhaustion. Also a sort of exhaustion by proxy, a sympathetic exhaustion when she looked at Sherlock Holmes.

“Okay, this is me,” she said, as she opened the door to her flat. She forced some cheer into her voice. Being sad wouldn't help the situation. Even though sad is what she felt. “Um, come on in.”

Sherlock stepped into the darkened flat. Somewhere in the living room, Toby hissed. Sherlock's body tensed and his eyes darted around in panic.

“It's just Toby,” Molly assured him, quickly. She flicked on the lights and the living room was illuminated. Toby sat on her PC, watching the new arrivals with curious green eyes. “He's my cat. He's friendly.”

Sherlock relaxed a little and looked around the flat with his usual sharp gaze. If she'd known she was going to have company, she would have cleaned up the place before she'd left for work the day before. Or two days before, she supposed it was now.

“You make yourself at home,” Molly said, making an inviting gesture. “I have to feed Toby, and then I'll get you settled in, if that's okay?” Sherlock didn't answer. She stepped over to him and touched his arm, gently. He looked down at her, those beautiful grey eyes bloodshot and tired. “Sherlock, go and sit down, okay?”

He nodded and lowered the hood of the jumper he was wearing. He had it done up tight around his head and had spent the entire cab ride from the hospital with his face in her shoulder, pretending to be too pissed to sit up properly. The cabbie didn't look twice at him. He wasn't Sherlock Holmes, the great detective who had thrown himself off a building. He was just another drunk passenger needing a ride home at one in the morning.

Sherlock stepped into the living room and took a tentative seat on the sofa. He sat perched on it and didn't look comfortable, but Molly counted it as a victory and left him there while she went to the kitchen. She always left out extra food for Toby because her hours were so strange. He'd be hungry by now, but not starving. She filled up the bowl and a moment later Toby sashayed in, nose in the air.

“I know, I'm sorry dinner is so late,” she cooed at him. She crouched down to stroke his head. “It's been a crazy day. Two days. We have to be nice to him, okay? He's a bit a sad.”

Toby went to work on the food, nibbling delicately. There was a shadow in the doorway and Molly turned to find Sherlock standing there, looking confused.

“I heard you talking,” he explained. “I thought maybe you were talking to me.” He cocked his head to one side, watching Toby. “Why do you talk to it? It's just a cat.”

Molly shrugged. “I live alone,” she said. “He keeps me company. Sometimes you just...talk. Like talking to yourself, only someone's listening. You do that in the lab. You talk the computer and the microscope and the mass spectrometer.”

“No, I talk to people but people don't listen,” Sherlock corrected.

She smiled and shook her head. “That's usually because we're not there,” she pointed out.

“John complains about that too,” he said. His face twisted up at the mention of his flatmate and Molly hurried to change the subject.

“Um, I only have the one bed,” she said, pointing toward her bedroom. “You can have it if you want. I can kip on the sofa. I'm smaller, so I'll fit better.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don't need your bed. I won't sleep,” he told her.

“Oh yes you will,” she said, surprising them both with the firmness in her voice. She was tired enough that her normal self-consciousness was gone. She was too tired to care. “You're going to eat and drink and sleep, because I didn't help you fake your death so you could collapse from stupidity.”

Sherlock blinked at her, his face set hard. “I will not be coddled,” he told her.

“It's not coddling, Sherlock,” Molly said. “It's common sense.”

“Eating slows down my thought processes,” Sherlock insisted. “I can't afford to be slow. I need to be able to think. I need to be awake. I'm not in the clear yet. I need to be ready for something to go wrong. I need...” he trailed off.

“You need to sleep,” Molly said, gently. “We've made it nearly twenty-four hours. We're safe. John, DI Lestrade and Mrs Hudson are safe. You're exhausted.”

“I can't sleep,” Sherlock said, and it was clear now that he meant he was physically unable to sleep, not that he wouldn't. “I'm not...good at it.”

Molly smiled at him. “Is there anything that helps?” she asked. Sherlock shook his head. “Warm milk? A bath? Um...no, that's silly, I can't sing to you..., but music. We could play music. Or...how about tea? Chamomile tea?” Sherlock shrugged. “Will you try it? At the very least, it might help you relax a little.” He frowned, but then reluctantly nodded. “I'll make you some. Sit down at the table. I'll make you some toast, too. You don't have to eat it, but maybe if you see it...”

She went about gathering up what she needed. Sherlock didn't sit down. He went on a tour of her kitchen, poking at things and picking up mugs and bric-a-brac to investigate. She tried not to think about all the things he was learning about her as he went along.

“It's a cow,” he said, putting his hand in the oven mitt and making the mouth work. “Why is it a cow?”

Molly blushed. “Oh. It's just...fun. You know...different.”

Sherlock obviously didn't understand. “Everything here is very friendly,” he said. “You've made a very happy place for yourself. Do you find that comforting?”

“I work around a lot of sad things,” Molly tried to explain. “I don't want to be sad when I come home. I like...I like to be...I like things that are whimsical because I feel like everyone in the world is trying to make it a bad place. I want to believe that it's not.” She giggled a little, nervously. “That doesn't make sense, I know.”

“It doesn't,” he agreed. “Not to me. But it's your home. I don't care what you do with it.”

Molly decided that was a pretty open-minded answer for him. She buttered the toast and let the tea brew. “Um, I think I have some things in a cupboard somewhere that you could sleep in,” she said. She handed the toast to him and he set it down on the work-surface, eyeing it suspiciously. “They're my dad's. My mum gave them to me after he died. She went on sort of a spree, tossing things out. She wanted me to donate them to a charity shop, but I thought she might regret giving it all up, so I've hung on to them. You're about the same size as him, I think.”

“I...” Sherlock said, like he was going to object again. He just shrugged and shook his head, as though the whole situation was beyond his comprehension.

“I'll go and find them,” she said. She added some milk and sugar to the tea, like he liked it. “Drink your tea.”

He accepted the mug and took a sip. She left him in the kitchen and went to the bedroom to look through her wardrobe.

She'd been there for a couple of minutes when she had the sensation of being stared at and she turned to find Sherlock hovering around her doorway. “Oh! You're in my room!” she said, looking around at the knickers and bras strewn on the floor and the teddy bear sitting on her bed. She had planned to pick up before he actually came in there.

“I won't remember your flat once I leave,” he said, in a tone of voice that she thought was supposed to be reassuring. “It's not necessary information.” She stared at him blankly. “I won't remember your undergarments.”

She blushed and tried to decide if she felt relieved or disappointed at that. She gave him a stupid smile and turned back to finding the box in her wardrobe. She really needed to organize it better.

“Does it have a name?” he asked, a few moments later. He was sitting on the bed now, holding her teddy bear and looking at it with curiosity. He sipped at his tea with his other hand and she was pleased he was drinking it. “People often name their toys.”

“Exeter,” she said, over her shoulder.

“As in the place?” he asked.

She nodded, turning back to her rummaging. “I got him when I was two and that's what I called him. No one knows why. I know it's silly. That I still have him.”

“People have comfort objects,” Sherlock said, dismissively. “It's not uncommon.”

“Do you have anything like that?” she asked, forgetting for a moment to whom she was speaking.

“No,” he said, simply.

There was silence for the next few minutes while Molly continued to rummage and Sherlock sipped at his tea. She was fully into the wardrobe now, standing between two frocks hanging on the rack and trying to find purchase as she awkwardly moved over the shoes on the floor.

“Here it is!” she said, triumphantly.

She pulled the box out with a huff, sweaty from the work and breathing heavily. She turned to hand it to Sherlock, only to find he had sort of collapsed sideways onto her bed. His feet were still on the floor, but the rest of him was lying down and he looked like he was fighting to keep his eyes open.

“You drugged my tea,” he accused, in a mumbled voice.

She put the box on the floor and removed the empty mug dangling from his fingers. “It's just chamomile,” she promised. She knelt down and took his borrowed trainers off, then encouraged him to put his legs up on the bed. “Try to rest, Sherlock.”

“Maybe just...few minutes,” he murmured, snuggling into the pillow. “Just close my eyes...not sleep...”

“That sounds like a good idea,” she told him. He was lying on one half of the duvet, so she wrapped the other half over top of him. His eyes were closed and within a minute his breathing was regular and deep. She smiled, sadly. All the times she'd dreamt of having Sherlock Holmes in her bed and this was how it happened. Not exactly a fantasy at all.

She tip-toed around, getting the pyjamas and dressing gown she'd be the least embarrassed for him to see her in, then went down the hall to take a shower. She felt grimy and oily and tear-stained.

The shower was wonderful and she stayed in there for a while, trying to process what the hell had happened in the last forty-eight hours. She couldn't make heads or tails of it and going over it made her sad and tired.

She fully expected Sherlock to be up and about again by the time she'd put on her night things and tip-toed back into her room. He was still lying there, though. She gently retrieved a pillow for herself and headed out to sleep on the sofa.

“Molly?” Sherlock's mumbled voice asked, as she made the doorway. She turned back. “There's a cat on me.”

In the semi-darkness, she hadn't noticed Toby, who had slung himself over Sherlock's hip and looked very pleased with the situation. She giggled softly. “There's nothing I can do about it, Sherlock, you're on his side of the bed.”

Sherlock was already back asleep and she shut the door, leaving it a crack open for Toby to get out if he wanted. She tossed her pillow onto the sofa and went back to the kitchen to make herself a snack. Sherlock hadn't touched the toast, so she just ate that. Then she settled on the sofa, trying not to think too hard about what she'd got herself into and what else the next few days would bring.

* * *

Molly hadn't expected to be able to sleep, but the next thing she knew Toby had jumped on her chest and sunshine was streaming through the living room window. She petted Toby and looked around to find Sherlock on her PC. She sat up in such alarm that Toby slid off her chest and landed ungracefully on the floor.

“That's—there's a password, I—” Molly stammered.

Sherlock turned and smiled at her. “Oh, you're awake,” he said. “I guessed the password. It wasn't hard. I needed to use it. I assumed you wouldn't mind.”

Molly very much minded. There was a diary on there and her e-mails and things she certainly did not want him looking at. “It's f-fine,” she lied. “Um. Yeah...”

“I've created a new user for myself,” Sherlock said. “Your desktop was too pink.”

“Oh thank God,” Molly said, before she could help herself. She was pleased that he didn't have access to her things. “I-I mean. That's fine.” She looked around for the time. It was a quarter to six. “Did you sleep?”

“For a few hours,” he said. He turned back to the computer. He seemed to be looking at the BBC News website. “So far everything seems to be in order. No suggestions of my still being alive. No reports of anyone...everyone seems to be safe.”

Molly pulled her dressing gown on and padded over to look over his shoulder. There were about twenty other tabs opened in the browser, most of them with the words 'Sherlock', “Holmes', 'Detective' or 'Suicide' in the title, or a combination of them. One of the tabs had 'The blog of Dr. ...' in it and she knew it was John's blog.

“You found my dad's things,” she said, recognizing the pyjamas and dressing gown he was wearing. “Do they fit all right?”

“They're fine,” he said. “I've selected what I want and put the rest back in the box. There's enough to see me through until I can get proper clothes.”

“Good,” she said. She shifted on her feet behind him, not sure what she should be doing. “Uh...do you want breakfast?”

“Just tea,” he said.

She nodded and went to the kitchen, Toby following along behind her. She didn't like this feeling of not being at home in her home. Sherlock had a tendency to make every space he was in feel like it belonged to him and that anyone else was just a guest passing through. She put the kettle on and poured a bowl of cereal for herself. Toby jumped up on the kitchen table and presented himself for petting, so she snuggled with him for a bit.

“Did you have a good sleep with the nice man?” she cooed. “I missed you. You're such a good cat for staying with him. He needs some snuggles, I think.”

She brought the tea out to the living room, handing a cup to Sherlock, who was still browsing through news reports.

“Just put it down, John,” he said, distractedly.

He didn't seem to notice his mistake and she didn't point it out, because it made her sad. She didn't want to think about somewhere else in the city, where John Watson might have made two cups of tea and had no one to give the other one to. She put the cup on the table next to Sherlock.

“Should I go into work today?” she asked.

“I suppose that's your choice,” Sherlock said, clicking open a new tab and running his name through the search engine. “What would you do had I really died?”

“I think...I think I'd probably put on a brave face and go in,” she said. “Even though I'd be a mess.”

Sherlock turned to look at her, seeming surprised by that. “You would?” he said.

“Um, yeah, well, I mean...you're my friend...I know I'm not your friend—I mean, you don't really think of me like that really, but I'd be really upset if you actually d-died,” Molly said, her cheeks flushing hot. She was really going to have to work on the whole blushing thing if Sherlock was going to stick around for a while.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “I see,” he said. It sounded like he didn't really see.

“Will you be okay here on your own?” she asked. “If I go to work?”

“I don't need minding,” he said.

“You won't...you know...run off and do something silly?” she pressed.

“No. And even if I did, your being here wouldn't stop me,” he said. “I'd do it anyway. But I do not intend to jeopardize all this work by walking out into the sunlight and being caught. If I go anywhere, it will be in disguise and done discreetly.”

Molly nodded. “Just be careful,” she said. He nodded, distractedly. “I'm going to go and get ready.”

He waved a hand and she headed toward her bedroom. “You are my friend,” he said, suddenly. She looked back. He was still facing the computer screen. “You're the only one I have right now.” He said it like it was a fact and everyone should know it. Like he was just correcting her on a common mistake, like she'd just said the sky was green and had to be taught otherwise.

But it still made her smile.

* * *

Molly had one of the longest days at work she'd ever experienced. Between the reporters clamouring around and everyone cocking their heads to one side and offering her sympathy, she could barely get anything accomplished. She arrived home to find her flat had been hit by a hurricane. There were things everywhere. Newspapers were flung about, all the papers strewn across the floor. Books were open and placed haphazardly on the tables and chairs. What looked to be a science experiment was set-up on the coffee table, but mugs were being used instead of beakers. Toby was curled up on her PC again, apparently unaffected by the mess.

“Sherlock?” she called, putting her handbag down.

“Kitchen,” he answered.

She made her way through the mess and found him leaning over the kitchen table, watching something in a little bowl intently. She had a very nice view of his backside and quickly moved herself to a place where she wasn't tempted to stare at it.

“Um...hi,” she said.

“Hello,” he replied.

“Uh...what's going on?” she asked.

“Bored,” he said. “I have to wait until nightfall before I can do anything constructive and needed to keep myself distracted. By the way, I've subscribed you to six more newspapers. You didn't have enough. I used one of your credit cards. I'll reimburse you before I leave.”

Molly's mouth was open, but she couldn't seem to speak. She closed it and tried again, but he was already going on.

“Your selection of textbooks is adequate,” he said. “But I've made a list of other books I'll need. There's no rush to get them. Tomorrow is fine.”

Molly knew she should be objecting, but she couldn't seem to work up the courage. “I...I'll try to get them after work,” she said.

He nodded and made an imperious gesture of acceptance. Molly frowned, but he didn't notice.

“I'm going to make dinner,” she said. He didn't answer.

She went about trying to make something, but Sherlock seemed to have used every dish and pot she owned. There was literally nothing to cook in or put food on or contain food in any way.

“On second thought, I'll run out and get a take away,” she said. Still no answer. “Do you want something?”

“No,” he said. “Get what you want. I may eat later if there is food leftover.”

She nodded. Once again, she tried to work up the courage to explain why this was not all right, but couldn't muster anything. She just left the flat quietly.

She picked up the food and bought some paper plates and cups and plastic utensils while she was out. All the while, she carefully rehearsed what she was going to say to him when she came back. The first draft was a little long, so she trimmed it down to get right to the point. Sherlock didn't have much of an attention span at the best of times. She had it down perfectly by the time she arrived back home. She opened the door and stepped into the flat with purpose, her mouth open in preparation.

Then she saw him and all the words went out of her head.

He was on her PC and staring at the screen with a look of such sadness that all she wanted to do was put down her bags and wrap her arms around him. The look was gone the moment he registered her presence, replaced with a rather annoyed look instead.

“John's posted,” he said, his voice dismissive. “It's ridiculously sentimental.”

Molly came over to read the entry. It was very simple. “He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him”. No title. Just an embedded video of a news report on Sherlock's suicide. The simplicity of it made it worse. It was so John to put it straight out there with no fluffy padding.

“Are you okay?” she asked Sherlock.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, a bit too quickly. “This is ridiculous. All I've done, all the work I put in to building up this safety net for him and he won't cooperate. He should hate me. He should be angry with me. Why isn't he?”

“Because he's John,” was Molly's answer. Sherlock made a face and nodded. “It's not too late, you know. To tell him.”

Sherlock shook his head violently. “It's too dangerous.”

“I'm sorry,” Molly said.

Sherlock abruptly got up and headed to the kitchen, muttering about an experiment. Molly frowned, suddenly not feeling very hungry any more.

“Sherlock?” she called. He turned back, glaring at her defensively. “You know it's all right to not be okay, right?”

Sherlock's face flashed some sort of emotion so fast, she wasn't sure she hadn't just imagined it. “I have to check on the acid,” he said, pointing to the kitchen. “You should probably stay out here. The smell is very strong.”

Molly got the hint. “Let me know if you need any help,” she said.

Sherlock nodded and flicked a fake smile at her. He went into the kitchen and she sat down at the computer desk. She forced herself to eat a few bites of the dinner. But first she closed down the browser.

* * *

Molly avoided the kitchen for the rest of the evening, settling in on the sofa with Toby to watch some telly and distract herself. Sherlock emerged about three hours later and sat down on the opposite end of the sofa.

“That woman is about to be murdered,” he said, leaning forward a little to squint at the telly. “What is this?”

“ _Inspector Morse_ ,” Molly said. “It's a re-run, of course.”

“She's going to be stabbed,” Sherlock declared, matter-of-factly. “Yes, there we go. She shouldn't have gone into the house. Why didn't she notice the plant had been knocked over on the porch?”

Molly smiled a little. “The script didn't say so?” she suggested.

“It was poorly written then,” Sherlock said. “How can you watch this? Look at the blood spatter. That is completely inaccurate.”

“I used to watch it with my dad,” Molly said. “He loved Morse. _Lewis_ , too. That's the spin-off.”

“What's a spin-off?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh. Um, well you see that character?” Molly said, pointing to Lewis on the screen. “Well, after this show ended, his character came back in his own show, about him. It's really good, too. There's another one, too, a prequel. That means it's set before the series. It's about Morse when he's younger. It's just had one episode so far, though.”

“So, it's nostalgic for you?” Sherlock asked.

Molly shrugged. “Yeah.”

“They should ask that cleaning lady about the ex-husband,” Sherlock said. “Do you see the books on the shelf, behind the grey-haired detective? Those are more characteristic of a man's tastes than a woman. She was probably divorced.”

“I think the set decorator probably just threw them in,” Molly said. “Unless it's a plot point later. You'd be good at set decorating. You'd know what all the characters should have.”

“It sounds very tedious,” he said. He frowned at the screen. “I sometimes have difficulty distinguishing the characters from the actors. I can read everything from the actor's real life and it interferes with my ability to understand the character. That one has a new baby. I don't enjoy television and films for that reason. Stage is better. If I sit far enough back, I can't see the little details.”

He fell silent, but kept close attention to the screen. For the next two hours, Molly found herself laughing and rather enjoying Sherlock's complaints about the accuracy of the show. It had been awhile since she had anyone to watch telly with. The last person had been Jim and look how that turned out.

“I told you it was the ex-husband,” he said, as the murderer was revealed. He stood up, apparently uninterested in the concluding scenes now that the case had been solved. “I'm going out for a bit.”

Molly looked up, alarmed. “You-you can't!” she said. “It's too dangerous.”

“I'll be well-disguised,” Sherlock assured her. “It's after dark. I'll be fine. I refuse to be stuck in this place for days on end.”

Some sort of dam broke in Molly at that and her hands balled into fists. “You don't have to be here,” she told him, angrily. “I'm not forcing you. This is my place, you could at least respect it.”

Sherlock looked genuinely confused. “I don't know what you mean,” he said.

“You've made a mess. You used all my dishes. You're ordering me around like at the lab, but this is my home and I shouldn't have to be your servant here,” Molly explained. She got to her feet, which did little to help the height difference, but made her feel more confident. “You've bought things without my permission. And now you're acting like spending time with me is a chore! Well, you don't have to be here. I'm doing you a favour and you—you should be grateful.”

Sherlock stared at her, his eyes flashing with anger and then turning to confusion and then...something else she couldn't define. She stood her ground, arms folded over her chest. It was very hard not to immediately stammer out an apology, but she bit her tongue.

“I will be back late, don't wait up for me,” he said, in a clipped tone.

She gaped after him as he simply walked out of her flat, grabbing a rucksack as he went by it. Her rucksack. She stomped her foot angrily and threw herself back on the sofa. Toby jumped up beside her, meowing curiously. He'd probably never seen her angry before.

“Was I too mean?” she asked. She shook her head at herself. “No, I wasn't. I was right. I am right. He was being rude.” She put her hand to her forehead, feeling exhausted. “I hope he'll be all right.”

* * *

Despite Sherlock's orders, Molly did stay up. She stayed up even into the time of day where all the telly had the in-vision sign language person in the corner. She fell into a light doze, where she was vaguely aware of what was happening but not completely awake. When she started to hear a deep baritone, she assumed it was the telly. Then she realized it wasn't.

“She doesn't look comfortable. She's in my way. I told her to go to bed. It's very inconvenient.”

She managed to find her way into wakefulness and found Sherlock standing beside her. Well, actually she found a homeless man standing beside her. Which made her shriek and alarm them both, plus Toby, who was lying on top of the sofa.

“It's just me,” Sherlock said, putting his finger to his lips. “Calm yourself.”

Molly put a hand over her heart to try and steady it. “Were you talking to Toby?” she asked.

Sherlock's eyes darted around. “No,” he said, firmly. “Why would I speak to a cat?”

“I heard you talking,” Molly insisted. “There's no one else to speak to.”

“You were dreaming,” he said. “You should go to your own bed. I want the sofa. Besides, I suspect you'll be even more unreasonable if you're sleep deprived.”

Molly stuck out her tongue at him. It was childish, but she was tired and she couldn't think of a better response. He stared at her in disbelief, then huffed a laugh that he quickly tried to cover. She giggled too and he smiled, a real smile. She'd never seen a real smile from him before. It was nice. It suited him.

“Go to bed,” he said, pointing to her bedroom. “I need the sofa.”

She got up, stretching out in the kinks in her back. “I'm glad you're all right,” she said.

He nodded.

“You're a jerk,” she added.

He nodded again.

“Good night,” she said.

He nodded for a third time. She went off to bed, barely managing to change before she fell into it and went to sleep.

When she woke up in the morning, the coffee table was cleared off and Sherlock was curled up on the sofa, a textbook balanced on his stomach. Toby was asleep on his legs. Sherlock flicked his eyes over to her, then to the coffee table, then back to his book.

She decided to accept his apology.

* * *


	2. Part Two-Shroedinger's Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of _Reichenbach_ , Molly gains a temporary flatmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some head canon with Sherlock and Molly's backstories in this part.

The two days that followed were much the same. Sherlock continued to make messes and order her around, but she came to realize that it was just how he was and she wasn't being treated any differently than anyone else. It made her feel very sorry for John Watson. Sorrier.

“You've taken a long time to get ready this morning,” he said, as she exited her bedroom on the third morning. He looked over at her black frock and court shoes. “Ah.”

She was trying to put her hair into a bun and failing. All the grips kept dropping from her hands. She bent down to pick them up and start again. “It's just a graveside service planned,” she said. “And then a wake at 221b.”

Sherlock frowned. “It's a lot of sentimental nonsense,” he said. “I've never seen the point of funerals. They won't bring back the dead.”

“People like to say goodbye,” she tried to explain, as the grips once again tumbled to the ground. “Especially when a death is sudden, like yours was. That sounds weird.”

“I was dragged out of school for my father's funeral, it didn't change anything,” Sherlock shared, absently flipping through a book. “It just made me behind in my classes.”

Molly had never, not once, heard him share anything personal like that. She froze in place, as though he were a rabbit and if she moved too fast, he would scamper away. “How old were you?” she asked, carefully.

“Fourteen,” he said, in the same absent tone.

She remained frozen in place, wondering how far she could press her luck. “Was it sudden?”

“Heart attack at his desk,” Sherlock said. “That's when my brother started on his crash diets.”

“Were you close with him?” she asked.

Sherlock frowned, looking over at her again. “I never know what people mean by that,” he said. “You don't mean in proximity.”

“No, I mean...” Molly tried to find the words. “Did you get along well? Were you...fond of him? Or did you fight a lot?”

Sherlock considered this. “He worked in the city. I was at school. When we were at home, it was fine,” he said. “This is off-topic. My point is: I don't understand the need to stand around and weep over something that can't be changed.”

Molly made a third attempt at wrangling her hair. “It's cathartic, I guess,” she said. “Sometimes you need to cry and funerals give you permission. Plus, you can remember them with people who knew and loved them. I like to think of it more as a celebration of a life. Remembering them and sort of...sending them off on their journey.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his book. “Nonsense,” he said. His eyes flicked over to her again, annoyed. “Molly, just wear your hair like you normally do. It's my funeral. I won't be offended, I promise.”

Molly laughed at the absurdity of that and pulled the grips out, letting her ponytail fall free. He nodded an approval. “Anything you want me to say?” she asked.

He made a face. “No. Be brief if you have to speak. Don't snivel.”

“'Sherlock Holmes was a very clever man and I liked him',” she suggested, with a laugh.

One corner of his mouth turned up. “That's perfect,” he said.

* * *

Several hours later Molly returned to the flat, feeling like every inch of her was aching. So many hours of holding tense, afraid of giving something away, watching everyone genuinely mourn, unable to comfort them, unable to do anything to make them feel better. She was exhausted and in pain and done. Just done.

Sherlock looked up from the computer when she entered. She was surprised, for some reason. She had been acting so hard, she'd sort of forgotten than he was in her flat. He was alive and dead at the same time, until she saw him again. Schroedinger's Detective.

She burst into tears. The look on his face was priceless and it would have been funny if she wasn't sobbing. He opened his mouth to say something, but she raised a hand to stop him and dashed into the toilet, closing the door firmly behind her. She sat on the edge of the bath, head in her hands and sobbed.

There was a gentle tap on the door. “Molly?” Sherlock called. She couldn't answer. “Should I...? If you need comfort you're going to have to direct me.”

This made her cry harder. How could he be so sweet and so clueless at the same time? “Go away,” she called, through her sobs. “I can't cry in front of you.”

“I don't see how my presence has anything to do with it but if you're sure,” he said, sounding a bit lost and disgruntled. “I'll just leave you to it, then?”

“Thank you,” she said.

She cried for a long time. Everything that she'd been holding in all came out. She hadn't had a chance to fully process what had happened. How sad it was. How sad she was about it. How much she hated it. She needed to cry. She needed to get it out. She felt better after she had.

She washed her face with cold water and waited until her hiccups died away. Then she left the loo. Sherlock was in the kitchen, working on an experiment. He stood when she entered, scrutinizing her as though she was a problem he didn't have an answer to. “John drinks tea when he's upset,” he said. He seemed to feel like this was enough of an explanation, as he sat down again, only adding, “it's probably cold now.”

She popped the cup in the microwave for a bit, not wanting to offend him by not drinking it after he'd made it, and settled down at the table with it. His eyes darted up from his work every once in awhile, like he was observing her to take notes later.

“I didn't think the funeral was that bad,” he said, after a few minutes of silence. “Was the wake overly sentimental?”

Molly's mouth dropped open. “You went? Sherlock Holmes! That's cheating! And someone could have seen you!”

“They didn't. Besides, I was hardly going to miss the opportunity,” Sherlock scoffed. “I will never have another chance to attend my own funeral while I have the ability to enjoy it.”

“Funeral's are private, Sherlock,” she scolded. “People say things they wouldn't say if the person was still alive. You're not meant to hear them.”

“Doesn't that contradict the religious nonsense of a person's spirit being ever by their loved ones side?” Sherlock asked. “Everyone kept telling me that when my father died, as though that were meant to be comforting.”

“They told me that after my nan died, too,” Molly said. “I was really little and I didn't understand it. I kept waiting for her to jump out of nowhere and scold me for doing something bad.”

“I would be very annoyed if that's actually what happens when a person dies,” Sherlock said. “I can't think of anything more boring than hovering around, being unable to do anything useful and watching everyone go through their mundane little lives.”

“You'd be a terror in heaven,” Molly said. “No mysteries for you to solve. You'd drive the saints to drink.”

Sherlock smirked and nodded. He studied her for a moment. “You haven't told me why you were upset.”

“You don't have to be nice,” she said.

He shrugged. “I know.”

She pulled a knee up to her chest and rested her chin on it, feeling exhausted. “It was just hard,” she said. “I mean, I knew it would be hard, but...it was really hard. Having to lie like that. S'not as if I'm not willing to do it or anything, but they were all so sad and I couldn't do anything to help. It's like watching someone about to fall in to a big hole and not being able to shout to warn them.”

He nodded. “It will get easier,” he said.

“I know,” she said, with a sad smile. “That's what I'm afraid of.”

* * *

All together, Sherlock was with her for about a week. They mostly worked around, rather than with each other, and Molly learned how to cope with his eccentricities and harsh words and mood swings. He learned to—well, he didn't learn anything. He was exactly the same person as he always was and nothing she said or did seemed to change that. There was something comforting in that—that no matter how awful the situation was, he could go on being himself. He was still a bit broken, that was obvious, but he was coping.

The same could not be said for everyone else. DI Lestrade was put on probation pending an investigation into Sherlock's involvement in cases over the years. Solicitors were clamouring at the doors of Scotland Yard, all wanting clients who had been convicted by evidence secured by Sherlock to be released immediately.

“Don't concern yourself about it,” Sherlock told her, when she was very much concerning herself about it. “It will be taken care of. He'll be gone for a month, maximum. Trust me.”

Molly didn't hear much from John. He wasn't posting on his blog and he certainly wasn't coming in to the mortuary. He responded, belatedly, to a couple of text messages she'd sent and a thank you card arrived from Mrs Hudson in response to the baked goods she'd left at Baker Street. They both sounded devastated, but seemed to be struggling through. And all things considered, that was probably more than could be hoped for. At least they had each other.

On the Saturday following his 'death', eight days after it, Molly woke up late and found Sherlock missing. He'd been out and about every day, but always late at night, after dark had fallen. It was too dangerous to be out in the daylight.

She thought about texting him, but then remembered he no longer had a mobile. She thought about texting Mycroft, who had given her his number, but she didn't know how to word it so as not to make it blatant that Sherlock was still alive to anyone who might see it. Besides, tattling to his big brother wouldn't do her any favours with Sherlock. Not that she cared, if it would mean keeping him out of danger.

She was about to risk texting Mycroft, having come up with an extremely vague inquiry, when the door opened and Sherlock walked in. Undisguised, in his usual coat, in broad daylight.

“Are you mad?!” she yelled at him. “What are you doing?!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It's fine. I had to meet with my brother,” he said. “And he insisted on accompanying me everywhere I went. I wasn't noticed. We're both of us quite good at that.”

He looked upset. Molly couldn't tell if he was angry with his brother or if it was something else. Sherlock's emotions all seemed to come out as anger or annoyance, no matter what they were in reality.

“Where did you go?” she asked.

“My grave,” Sherlock said, tersely. “I needed to confirm something. I did. John and Mrs Hudson were visiting, but they didn't see me. I'm going to give you a list of things I need picked up. Please do it immediately.”

Molly didn't object, because he looked so serious about it. Also, he'd said please. That was quite an improvement. She took the list and agreed to get the things he needed. He told her where to go and promised to reimburse her.

“Are you all right?” she asked, as he ushered her out the door impatiently.

“I'm fine,” he said.

She didn't believe him, but she knew better than to try and push it. He always pushed back and she ended up unhappy, while he remained just the same.

* * *

Molly purchased the things he needed—which were all professional grade hair products from a supplier for salons. She guessed he was about to do something drastic to his hair, but he simply took the bag from her and disappeared in to the bathroom, no explanation offered.

He was in there for hours and hours. She knocked on the door a few times and was reassured everything was fine. He emerged near tea time.

“Oh my God, you're blond!” she said.

“Outstanding deduction work, Molly,” he said.

She had come to realize that comments like that weren't necessarily meant to be insults, so she didn't take it personally.

“How are you at cutting hair?” he asked.

“Um...not good?” she said. “I mean, I've never tried on real people but—but I wouldn't trust me with a pair of scissors.”

“Nonsense, you work with intricate testing and scalpels all day,” he said, in that cajoling voice he used when he wanted her to do something. He even threw in that smile that made her knees go weak. “You can do this.”

She frowned at him. “Why do you ask if you're not going to accept my answer?” she said.

“Because if I don't, I have to hear about how rude I am, which takes up more time than pretending I care what you think,” he replied, matter-of-factly.

Molly started laughing at that. He looked surprised, as he always did when she laughed at him. It wasn't something she had done much before this past week. He was always a creature not to be reproached. The mighty had fallen a little now, however, and she started to think of him more as a human being. It wasn't a bad thing.

“If you want me to hack your hair off, all right,” she said. “But it's your fun—er, uh, problem.”

“You'll be fine,” he insisted.

“You haven't seen what I used to do my dolls,” she said.

“Safety scissors and plastic hair are not the same as professional clippers and keratin,” he said.

He sat himself down on the floor in front of her, while she sat on the couch. He held up a passport with a photo of him as a blond, with short hair. It also proclaimed him a Swiss citizen named 'Stefan Batliner'.

“Try to match that as closely as possible,” he said. “It doesn't have to be perfect, but when I leave, I need to be able to get through airport security without being recognized or raising flags. Mycroft will help with the technical aspects, but he can't control gossip. I don't want anyone questioning who I am.”

Her protests that this really wasn't a good idea fell on deaf ears. Eventually, she gave in and agreed to give it a go.

“Molly, stop squeaking!” he said, after she'd been working for a bit.

“Sorry,” she said. She had been making little noises every time the scissors snipped.

She managed to quiet herself, but still winced each time a curl fell to the towel around his shoulders. Whatever he'd done to make himself blond had damaged his hair quite badly. It was bit dry and brittle and had lost most of its shine. His scalp looked raw and painful too, but he didn't complain. The scissors cut through easily and, with a little trial and error, she managed to get the hang of it.

He flicked on the telly while she worked. He'd developed a habit of watching, or at least being present for, what she was watching in the evenings, while he waited for dark to fall. He was terrible viewing partner—talking over all the important plot developments and predicting the endings to everything, or simply insulting her viewing choices.

He flicked past various shows restlessly, including the news, but immediately switched back to it. There was a picture of him in what he always referred to as 'The Hat' in the corner of the screen.

“Still?” he murmured. “You're still going on about it? There has to be something more interesting happening in the world. Surely someone has killed someone or there's been a natural disaster. I am the first to admit I'm fascinating, but this is ridiculous.”

He turned the volume up. The news reporter was talking about a 'Believe in Sherlock' movement that had started on Twitter and now spread on to the streets of London and even around the world. People were putting up posters and stickers and writing messages on the walls of Barts. Molly had seen a bit of that at work—she'd try to show him a photo she'd taken with her mobile of the wall where he'd jumped, which had flowers and cards left in front of it. He'd dismissed it as nonsense.

“Well, the thing is,” a student was saying, in an interview. “That, I mean, I've read the blog since the beginning and...I just don't think it can all be a lie, you know? It just can't be. And I think it's disgusting that people would—would drive someone to kill themselves, just because he's cleverer than them. Just because they're jealous. It's like bullying, isn't it? It's terrible.”

There were a few other people interviewed, with various tales of conspiracies. They were frankly ludicrous and Sherlock cheered them on.

“Yes, perfect,” he said. “Perfect. Interview all the nutters. That will help. Make it look more legitimate by how insane they sound.”

“Some of them aren't that far from the truth,” Molly pointed out.

“Yes, and that's why people will believe the more reasonable thing,” he said. “If you didn't know me—really know me—which would you believe? That I was a fake who was caught and killed myself out of shame, or that there was a vast conspiracy set up by one man who liked to cause chaos for fun?”

“I see your point,” Molly admitted. “I just feel bad for John. People either seem to think he's an idiot for believing you or that he knew all along. Either way, he's getting a lot of hate.”

Sherlock shrugged and she winced as she nearly took a slice out of his ear. “He'll deal with it,” he said. “People will forget. He's survived worse than this. He'll be all right.”

Molly couldn't tell if he really believed that or if he just wanted to believe it.

“I hope so,” she said.

He flicked the telly off and didn't reply.

* * *

Molly was quite pleased with the results of her haircut. It wasn't perfect, but it was roughly uniform and so different from his ubiquitous messy dark curls that it really did change his face a lot. The blond hair made him paler and the short length made his eyes seem wider and his cheekbones sharper. He had been growing a sort of beard as well, which helped. By the time he added in his ability to completely change his voice, manners and posture, he was hard to recognize.

She'd known that he was getting ready to leave, but as much as he was a pain to live with, she didn't want him to go. She knew that once he left, he'd be in danger—incredible, terrible danger. He'd be risking his life constantly and she wouldn't know if he was all right or not or how long she would have to keep his secret or what might happen if she failed.

She was woken up around 3AM on that ninth day, by someone moving outside her bedroom door. It wasn't unusual since he'd moved in, but there was something about the way he was moving carefully and quietly that aroused her suspicions. He'd made no effort to be quiet in the past, no matter what hour it was. She didn't know why he'd start now, unless he was trying to go unnoticed.

He was standing at the kitchen table when she found him, her rucksack slung over his shoulder and his hoodie done up tight around his head. He frowned when she appeared.

“You should be asleep,” he told her.

“You were going to leave without saying goodbye,” she said.

“I left a note,” he said, pointing to the paper on the table. “I thought... it might be better.”

“It wouldn't,” she said. “It wouldn't be better.”

“Oh.”

Toby hopped up on the table, mewing curiously. Sherlock gave him an absent pat on the head.

“I've left a credit card, it's preloaded with the amount of money I owe you,” he said. “Rounded up to the nearest hundred. I've added the price of what I'm taking with me, as well, so you can buy replacements and factored in room and board.”

“I don't need—”

“Take it,” he ordered.

“Okay,” she said.

He nodded. “I've also left Mycroft's number—his private one,” he said. “If you need anything, contact him. If you think you're in danger, contact him. Even if you think you're being paranoid or silly.”

“Okay,” she said.

“Some of his people may be following you for the next few weeks, until things calm down in the news,” he went on. “Don't be alarmed. If they do their jobs right, you shouldn't notice them. If you do notice someone following you, ring Mycroft. It's better to be safe.”

“Okay,” she said.

There was silence and he seemed like he wanted to say something, but kept changing his mind.

“I'll keep an eye on your friends,” she said. “I'll make sure they're okay.”

He looked surprised and then nodded. “Good,” he said.

“And I'll keep your secret safe,” she added. “I'll do my best.”

“Your best will be more than enough,” he said, and she blushed at the veiled compliment. “I never doubted that.”

He shifted on his feet and then turned and left the kitchen. She followed him to the door.

“Please keep safe,” she said. “Try.”

“I have no intention of getting myself killed now,” he said. “I'll be fine.”

She forced a smile. “I know.”

He opened the door to leave, but she stopped him and hugged him tight. He tensed up, then relaxed a little. After a few moments, he started wriggling like a toddler wanting to be set down. She let go and looked up at him. He had brown contacts in. It made her said that the last image she might have him was of him looking so unlike himself.

“Goodbye,” he said, firmly.

“Goodbye,” she replied.

Then he left. She closed the door behind him and blinked back the tears. She returned to the kitchen. Toby was lying on the note. She pushed him away and he jumped into her lap while she read it.

It didn't take long. There were only four words.

“Thank you, Molly Hooper”

Then the tears came for real.

* * *

  


_two years later_

Molly frowned as the first few fat drops of rain landed on her head. She had been hoping the bus would arrive before the rain did. She didn't even have a jacket with her.

Her mobile beeped in her pocket. She hesitated before looking at it, afraid it was the mortuary calling her back in. She'd already tried to leave twice that evening. She really needed to start saying 'no' when they asked her to stay later. She needed to start saying 'no' in general.

There was a text message from an unknown caller. It simply read, 'turn around'. She froze in place. A girl alone at a bus stop. At night. In the rain. With a weird text message from an unknown caller. It sounded like the beginning of a horror film. If she were in a horror film, she would definitely be the first victim.

She turned around slowly, afraid of what she might find behind her. There was a man standing a few feet away, out of the light. She was calculating the quickest route to run to safety when he shifted slightly and she recognize his silhouette. She shrieked, not in terror, and ran towards him.

“Oof!” said Sherlock Holmes, as she threw her arms around his waist.

She pressed her face into his chest, not caring that he was like stone in her embrace. His arms hovered oddly in the air before very gently wrapping around her, as though they weren't sure if they were doing it right. One hand patted her back a few times.

“Yes, that's quite enough,” he said, after a bit. Molly let go and stood back, beaming at him. “Hello.”

“I'm so glad you're not a serial killer,” she said. It was certainly not the greeting she would have liked to give, but as usual, her brain didn't communicate with her mouth. “Er...I mean...I'm glad you're not here to kill me...no, what I mean is—”

“You look older,” he interrupted.

Well, that wasn't exactly the greeting she would have liked from him, either. “It's been two years. I am older,” she pointed out.

“I've seen your Facebook photos,” he said. “Your hair looks better like this.”

She shrugged, wondering if he'd emerged from the ethers after two years of being dead just to criticise her appearance. She wouldn't put it past him. “I tried to keep it updated, in case you were looking,” she said. The rain was starting to fall harder now and she put a hand above her eyes, trying to keep her view of him clear.

“I was,” he said, with a nod. He seemed unaffected by the rain.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Tying up loose ends,” he said.

“Are you home now, then?” she said. “For good?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes welled up with tears, even as she giggled at the relief of it. For so many months she'd had to lie and hide and watch as her friends grieved when all she had to do stop their pain was tell them the truth. Sherlock Holmes was alive. It was a heavy burden.

He frowned at her, leaning in close to study her face. He opened one flap of his coat, holding it above her head and blocking out the rain. “You're laughing and crying at the same time,” he said, looking fascinated. “I've never seen anyone do that before.”

Molly waved a helpless hand as the tears and laughter continued, unable to control them. “I don't want you to think I'm not happy to see you,” she managed to get out. “I'm just really happy to see you.”

He looked confused. “Yes, well, good,” he said. “You should have chosen a bus stop with a shelter. This is uncomfortable.” He made no move to lower his arm though.”I broke into your flat. I needed some things.”

“Okay,” she said, for some reason not very surprised.

He blinked at her. “And I need your help,” he went on.

“Okay,” she repeated.

His lips twitched at the corners. “You'll miss your bus,” he said.

“Okay.”

He gave a real smile now. “Shall we get out the rain?” he suggested.

She nodded and followed behind him until he found a shelter to cover them, in a dark corner of the street. He explained to her what he needed her to do and she nodded along, out of practice in keeping up with his rapid speech and expectations that everyone would understand him immediately and the miracles he had faith that she could work for him.

“Can you do that?” he asked.

“I think—“

“Good,” he said. “Meet me here in an hour.”

Molly contemplated trying to explain that what he needed couldn't very well be accomplished in an hour, but considering what was at stake, she knew she would accomplish it anyway. “I'll do my best,” she said.

“Of course you will,” he said, dismissively. “Go now.”

Molly gave him a little salute that she immediately flushed at having given and turned to go. She stopped after a few steps and turned back. “Welcome home,” she said.

He nodded, a smile peeking through. “Go,” he said.

And she went to pull off her next miracle, which would bring about the greatest of them all: bringing Sherlock Holmes back from the dead.


End file.
